For the hermit trout

Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook,

No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook ;

But here I lie,

And laugh as they try;
Shall I bite at their bait ? No, no; not I!

But when the streams,

With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,

Then, then look out

For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

BY EPES SARGENT.

A LIFE on the ocean wave!

A home on the rolling deep! Where scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep !

Like an eagle caged, I pine

On this dull unchanging shore; Oh, give me the flashing brine,

The spray, and the tempest's roar.

Once more on the deck I stand

Of my own swift gliding craft. Set sail ! farewell to the land :

The gale follows far abaft. We sport through the sparkling foam

Like an ocean hird set free; Like the ocean bird, our home

We'll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew,

We'll say let the storm come down. And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and waters rave,
A life on the heaving sea !
A home on the bounding wave!

3*

THE DYING LEGACY.

BY J. M. CHURCH.

Saw ye the shadow o'er his brow,

The pallor o'er his cheek? Saw ye the sadness in his eye,

And did ye hear him speak ?
Ah ! 'twas an impulse horrible

Inflamed his aged breast,
The blasting of his dying hopes,

His poor wife's sole bequest.

But late, a daughter, simple child,

Sat prattling on his knee,
The solace of his tottering days,

His poor wife's legacy!
And as he looked into her eyes,

And watched her childish glee,
He murmur'd, Dear, oh dear, thou art

My poor wife's legacy.

"Tis now that old man, weak and wan,

Sits comfortless and lone,
His child, alas! poor fallen thing,

Sickening to think upon.
And as her image meets his thoughts,

They strive, they strive to flee,
In vain, poor fall’n Emma-he sobs,

My poor wife's legacy!

THE LAST BOUQUET.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

There's sadness in your bloom to-night,

My freshly-gathered flowers,
As though ye conscious emblems were

Of happy bygone hours;
Your fragrant breath floats heavily,

Each leaflet seems to say-
O’erwrit with fairy-graven lines-

It is the last bouquet.

When deeply in your

buds

ye slept, I culled with heartfelt glee Your gay compeers—the elder-born

And twined them merrily,
To speak what flowers were made to tell,

And what they best can say, —
The olden charm bides not with ye,

Ye are Love's last bouquet.

O when each flowery nook is gleaned,

And nought remains to wreathe, But shrubs all wild and flowerless,

That no sweet odours breathe,Unto perennial fields I'd fly,

Through upper gardens stray, To tread again no desert track,

Nor cull a last bouquet!

THE MINSTREL'S RETURN.

BY JOHN H. HEWITT.

The minstrel's returned from the war,

With spirits as buoyant as air; And thus on his tuneful guitar,

He sings in the bower of his fair. The noise of the battle is over,

The bugle no more calls to arms; A soldier no more, but a lover,

I kneel to the power of thy charms!
Sweet lady, dear lady, I'm thine,

I bend to the magic of beauty;
Though the helmet and banner are mine,

Yet, love calls the soldier to duty.

The minstrel his suit warmly pressed,

She blushed, sighed, and hung down her head; Till conquered she fell on his breast,

And thus to the happy youth said-
“ The bugle shall part us, love, never;

My bosom thy pillow shall be ;
Till death tears thee from me forever,

Still faithful, I'll perish with thee.”
Sweet lady, dear lady, I'm thine,

I bend to the magic of beauty;
Though the helmet and banner are mine,

Yet, love calls the soldier to duty,